


Painting

by LynyrdLionheart



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8894167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynyrdLionheart/pseuds/LynyrdLionheart
Summary: She's been trying to paint something that shows the happiness she's found ever since the war ended, but all that's come out is darkness, and that's not how she feels at all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for bestmelle on Tumblr. I didn't manage to add in any of the Inner Circle, but I hope you enjoy some Feyre/Rhys sweetness.

It’s dark.

               Feyre stepped back and scowled at her canvass.  She brushed her hair behind her ear, ignoring the paint she left smeared behind.

               She wanted to paint something… _happy_.  Instead, all she saw were shades of brown and black and grey that inspire nothing but melancholy.  She didn’t want melancholy, dammit.  She wanted _happy_.

               She _was_ happy and can’t understand why she was unable to express the happiness she found everyday with Rhys on the canvass.  Instead, every time she picked up the brush… _this_ came out.

               Anger rose in her, and she paced away from the canvass.  Part of her blamed Tamlin for it all, though  Feyre knew it wasn’t entirely fair.  It was the King of Hybern who was to blame.  But he was dead, killed at Nesta’s hands – another crime he’d never pay for, that Feyre’s sister now  knew the pain of taking another’s life, something Feyre  would never wish for  her – and that  meant that blaming him  left Feyre without a living target.

               Tamlin was alive though.

               She turned towards the canvass once more, only to find that in her anger, she had set it ablaze.  Cursing, she reached for the powers gifted to her by the Summer Court, and in a moment, the canvass was a sopping, ruined mess. She was scowling at it when a warm chuckle sounded from behind her.

               “Feyre Darling.” Rhys’s voice sent a shiver down her spine.  His arms wrapped around her, and he tugged her back into the solid strength of his torso.  His hands rested over her stomach, and Feyre rested her own over them.  She smiled when he bent down and pressed kisses along her neck.  “What exactly did the canvass do to anger you?”

               “It doesn’t matter,” Feyre replied.  She lifted her hands from his and turned in his embrace, wrapping her arms around his neck.  “Kiss me again.”

               Her mate was entirely content to do so, teasing her lips with his until she finally grew frustrated, and pulled him in to kiss him more thoroughly.

               “Wow,” Rhys murmured when they broke apart, both panting. His eyes looked somewhat dazed, and Feyre felt rather pleased with herself for that, even though she knew her expression had to be almost identical.  She licked her lips, playing with the fine hairs at the nape of Rhys’ neck.

               “Wow,” she agreed.  “If you took me to our room, I could wow you even more.”

               They kissed again, and then again.  They were quick, sweet kisses, and Feyre felt her lips curve in response to the affection.

               She was so _happy_.

               _Why didn’t her paintings show that?_

She smile turned into a scowl, and it actually took her a moment, before she realized that Rhys had stopped kissing her.

               “For something that doesn’t matter, it’s making you quite distracted” – he ran his fingers down her cheek and tilted her chin up, to press another sweet kiss to her lips – “talk to me, Feyre.”

               Feyre sighed, and rested her head on Rhys’ chest.  She felt him nuzzle her hair, and closed her eyes, luxuriating in simply being held by him

               “I don’t want to talk about it,” she admitted after a moment.  “Talking about  it means remembering… and I don’t want to remember.”

               _Hybern, the Spring Court, Tamlin, Ianthe…_ Feyre didn’t want to remember _any_ of it.  She just wanted to be happy.

               They _deserved_ to be happy.

               “I’m a terrible painter,” Rhys said, his voice a rumble against Feyre’s ear.  He released his hold on her, and carefully pulled away, sauntering over to her blank canvasses.  He grabbed one, and after eyeing the scorch easel for a moment apparently decided it could still be used. He picked up a brush, and with absolutely no plan in mind, smeared blue paint onto he canvass.

               “I don’t remember you being _that_ bad,” Feyre replied.  Her voice came out as almost a purr, and Rhys paused, glancing back at her.  Hunger lit his violet eyes, and a thrum in the mating bond told Feyre he was  remembering the last time they played together with paint, just as she was – when she had accepted the mating bond in the cabin, and first discovered what it was like, to know someone on that impossibly intimate level

               “That was finger painting,” Rhys replied, his voice thick and hoarse.  “I’ve always been good with my hands.”

               Feyre swallowed at the innuendo, her gaze focusing on those hands as they moved back to painting, though they seemed a little less steady

               “What are you even _painting_?” She demanded, joining him and wrinkling her nose as he added more blue, and some  grey smudges and a bit of  yellow. He hadn’t been lying… whatever it was supposed to be, it was quite terrible.

               “The sky over Valaris in the daytime,” Rhys replied cheerfully.  He aimed the brush for more paint, and Feyre grasped his wrist and stopped him.

               “You’re using too much paint,” she stated. She stepped up behind him, so she held the brush with him, and leaned her head around, so she could see the canvass, carefully moving his wing into a more manageable position.  “You need to use what’s already there, and blend it out.  Use it to add shadows, and make the light play where you want it.”

               Pleasure thrummed along the bond, the simple pleasure of just being in each other’s company. For too long, they had been separated and forced to play a game where they pretended the other didn’t matter.   It had broken pieces of Feyre, to have to look at Rhysand as though he didn’t matter

               “I knew,” he murmured fiercely, and Feyre stopped moving the brush to make Valaris look more true to itself at the tone. “Every day, every time you had to lie, I knew you loved me.  I felt it as a fierce, living creature within me. They _never_ took that away, Feyre.  _I knew_.”

               He set the paint brush down, and turned to frame her face with his hands.  His eyes were fierce and bright, and Feyre couldn’t look away as she covered his hands with her own.

               “You are allowed to be angry and broken… but you need to know that I never doubted your love for me. And you need to know that I will always want to know what troubles you.  Never hide from me, Feyre.  That’s the only thing that would hurt me.”

               He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and Feyre closed her eyes, clinging almost desperately to his hands.

               “I need you,” she said, her eyes flaring open.  Her need was echoed in his own expression, and  when he kissed her this time, there was no doubt as to where it would lead.  Between hot, hungry kisses, and bodies that moved in sync to find pleasure, she let him feel everything she felt.  The love and pleasure… but also the pain and regrets.  And it made his kisses even fiercer, his love even more complete.

               She would put it in words as well, someday.  But for the moment, she let him heal those pieces of her that didn’t carry any visible wound – only the emotional ones.

               When they finished, and Rhys’ breaths eventually deepened into those of sleep, Feyre looked once more at the canvass.  She carefully removed herself from Rhys’ hold, and not caring that she was naked, went back to painting.

               It didn’t take her long – she and Rhys had laid the bedrock for it already. But when she stepped back, it was Velaris and above it, a blue sky filled with the sun.  Feyre grinned at it victoriously, because _this_ was what she had been trying to paint.  Something beautiful and filled with hope.

               Behind her, she heard Rhys move.

               “Feyre, come back,” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep. “I’m not done with you yet.”

               Feyre turned away from the canvass, still smiling, and joined her mate on the bed made of their discarded clothes.

               “Oh, Rhys, you’ll never be done with me.”


End file.
